Love and Murder
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: Clint and Natasha travel to deliver the news of Coulson's death to the cellist he left behind in Portland. Spot my Bourne Legacy reference and win. Clintasha. Coulson/oC.


He tried to focus on the road, on the autumn leaves peppered there, skittering across the road when he sped over them. His eyes flicked over the trees that lined the road, bare and empty, merely glorified twigs sprouting from the cold ground. Anything to keep his mind off the task in front of him.

The redhead in the passenger seat kept her eyes ahead, only moving to rest her palm against his on the gear shift.

It had been two days. They hadn't even put him in the ground yet, and they expected him to go off and deliver news to the only person Coulson was close with outside of his work. At least the only person that SHIELD knew of. Clint knew Coulson's parents were both deceased from natural causes and old age. They hadn't exactly been spring chickens when they birthed their only son.

There was no need to issue a complicated file for this mission. Merely a recent picture so they would know her face, and an address on the outskirts of Portland.

Neither occupant spoke, neither reached to tune the radio dial. Complete silence seemed to be the only fitting background noise.

They reached the tired looking house, an old Victorian she'd been trying to restore. He parked the Volvo at the end of the drive, not too close to the woman's own vehicle.

For a moment, he paused, readying his mind for what to say. They'd driven four hours, and all that time he'd come up with nothing that sounded correct and not icily cold.

Natasha gave his hand a squeeze and he met her eyes. Watery green against her flat blues. "Ready?" she asked.

He didn't nod or answer, just stared. He knew he'd be the one to have to do it. She didn't do well in these situations. She could administer damage control, but not the initial damage.

He jaw shifted and he lowered his gaze. He silently counted off a full minute in Russian. Anything to stall, but no matter how long they stayed in the car he knew he'd never come up with anything worthy of speaking to comfort the woman inside the house before them.

He opened his door to signal the answer to her question and traipsed along the dirt driveway, dry leaves crunching beneath his boots. He took her front steps two at a time, keeping in front of his ruby-haired partner. Twin rocking chairs caught his eye on the porch next to a watering can and drooping flowers.

He pulled the battered screen door aside to knock.

Natasha shifted behind him, tugging her rust colored jacket closer around her. He turned to give her a weary smile and tug at the end of her scarf.

She smiled.

The door opened, and a middle aged woman stood before them, dressed casual, a flour splattered apron around her neck. Her brunette hair was tossed up sloppily yet attractively and she had blue eyes that almost reminded him of Natasha's.

"Hi," he began. "I'm Clint Barton, and this is my friend Natasha." No use explaining the real deal between them. It was too complicated and unnecessary.

"You're with SHIELD," the woman said.

His brows furrowed a moment as Clint tried to estimate how much clearance she had and what exactly he could reveal.

"Yes ma'am." His sloppy Southern drawl twanged in his voice but he didn't try to cover it. "I'm afraid there's been an accident. Phil Coulson…was…killed in action."

The woman glanced away, down at the cracked tile flooring. She looked like the wind had just been knocked out of her, but remained silent.

When she finally faced him again, her eyes were clouded. "C-could you…Would you like to come inside, Mr. Barton?" she asked politely, her voice tight.

He attempted a smile, not sure how comfortable it looked and nodded once. He stepped inside the manor, boots echoing heavily in the bare foyer.

"I can get you some coffee," she offered, shutting the door once Natasha had entered.

"That'd be great, Miss…?" Clint inclined his head forward, initiating her cue to give her name.

"Marta. Its Marta," she said quietly, and turned for the kitchen, indicating they should follow.

He glanced at Natasha, whose own eyes were softened, her lips pressed tight. She was trying to remain stoic, and he knew her much better than that. She tried to pretend not to be bothered, and usually had it down to science. But there were things that couldn't be compressed.

A hand slipped around her elbow and he coaxed her forward, smiling warmly, eyes wrinkling up at the corners.

Marta's kitchen was cozy and warm, enough that the newcomers removed their leather coats and scarves, draping them over the backs of the dining room table's chairs. Marta stood at the coffee pot, silent, spooning grounds into the filter.

Natasha's chair squeaked against the floor, and as if it were the trigger, Marta's hands came to her face. The sob was unmistakable.

The pair shared only a quick glance before Natasha moved, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder. "I've got it. Sit down," she said softly. Clint had never heard her voice so tender directed at someone else other than him.

The woman obeyed, sliding her own chair out and clamoring into it. She hid her face from Clint, one hand shielded over her eyes.

"Ma'am…" he began, palm resting on the table. Then his hand moved to press his fingers against her forearm.

"Marta…he was being loyal. A good man. As always. He did what he had to do."

She swiped at the tears under her eyes. "I know that." She said calmly, assured. "He wouldn't have gone any other way. He always did the right thing."

Clint's hand moved away, resting in his lap. He heard the tick of the coffee machine and then the trickle of liquid. "Yes. He did."

She let herself cry silently, breath shuddering in heavy streams. Every so often her hands came to her eyes, smearing the thin application of eye liner she wore. Natasha set a cup of coffee in front of her, along with the sugar bowl and creamer. She passed Clint his own cup before sitting in her chair across from the woman.

Clint spoke suddenly. "Phil saved me from myself," he said, softly, the coffee cup hovering near his lips. "Found me in Mexico City, about to just end it all." He shook his head, remembering. "I had nothing else to live for. Hated myself. Until he came along and promised a different way."

His gaze fell on Natasha, her eyes trained intensely on him. He smiled softly and returned to his coffee.

"Anyways. He was always doing stuff like that for us. Us…the guys at SHIELD, I mean."

He didn't really know why he'd said it. He hadn't expected himself to in the first place. But it felt right. He'd never discussed his relationship with Coulson with anyone.

There was a long pause. Marta's tears silenced to sniffles, her apron hanging limply off her lap now.

"I never liked him," Natasha spoke. Clint glanced sharply in her direction; confused and shocked. Marta did the same. Not exactly the best thing to say to a grieving loved one.

"I grew to like him. He was always kind." Nat's fingers twitched in her lap. "Sometimes irrationally kind in my mind, but always very just."

Clint turned back to Marta. She stared into her half-emptied mug, looking haggard and torn to shreds. "I feel so awful."

"Why's that?" Clint asked.

"I told him we needed to…" She wiped at one eye with the sleeve of her sweater. "End things. It was too complicated with his secrecy and my shows and rehearsal all the time." She sighed dryly.

"Ma'am…" Clint said, but caught Natasha's gaze out of the corner of his eye. They were getting in too deep. Into things that weren't their jurisdiction. They were here to deliver news, and they'd done their job. As much as Clint wished to take the pain away—this woman's, and his own—that would only come with months of self-healing. He had done enough, and nothing he could say further would soothe anything.

He tapped a hand against Marta's on the tiled table and stood. "I'm sure you have a way to contact SHIELD. Ask for my name if you need anything," he offered.

The woman nodded, eyes focused on a speck in the grout.

Clint nodded for Natasha to leave and she turned, heading for the front exit once more.

The two assassins retreated through the dusky night, a thick blanket of leaves stirred up by their boots. Getting too involved had always been his weakness. He remembered once in Taiwan when a bus of abandoned kids had come into their path; he'd insisted on bringing them to safety, but when tempted to provide further help, Natasha had refused. Clint had been shocked at first. But she was right, always right. Their job was not to console, but to kill, and love and murder couldn't live in the same place.

He slid back into the driver's seat and revved the engine before bringing a hand to rest on her thigh next to him, running the calloused pad of his thumb along the thick denim.

"You made the right call," she assured him.

He glanced over at her and threw her a smile in the growing darkness.

"I always do."


End file.
